to come.

As he ate his second helping of the excellent meal, he said
pleasantly: "You do know how to cook, Rose."

Her soft gray-blue eyes brightened. "I love to do it," she
answered quickly. "You must tell me the things you like best,
Martin. If I had a real stove with a good oven, I could do much
better."

"Could you? We'll get one tomorrow."

"That'll be fine!" she smiled, eager to have all serene between
them, and as she passed him to get some coffee her hand touched
his in a swift caress. Instantly, Martin's cordiality vanished;
his hostility toward her surged. Even as a boy he had hated to be
"fussed over." Well, he had married and he would go through with
it. If only Rose would be more matter of fact; not look at him
with that expression which made him think of a confiding child.
What business had a grown woman with such trust in her eyes,
anyway?

It was quite gone, in the early dawn, as Rose sat on the edge of
the bed looking at her husband. Never had she felt so far from
him, so certain that he did not love her, as when she had lain
quivering but impassive in his arms. "I might be just any woman,"
she had told herself, astounded and stricken to find how little
she was touched by this experience which she had always believed
bound heart to heart and crowned the sweet transfusion of
affection from soul into soul. "It doesn't make any more